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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26882785">sparrow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenscully/pseuds/kittenscully'>kittenscully</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>fictober 2020 [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The X-Files</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Post-Cancer Arc (X-Files), Season/Series 05, Stakeout, it's cold and dark but scully is still bright</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:48:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,209</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26882785</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenscully/pseuds/kittenscully</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The New England winter would suit Scully, in all her quiet, cut glass grace. He likes to picture her in front of a fireplace as the wind howls outside, a furry blanket draped around her.</p>
<p>[fictober day 7]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fox Mulder/Dana Scully</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>fictober 2020 [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sparrow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Prompt: "This, this makes it all worth it."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Overfilled coffee cups near to burning his hands, bag of tiny powdered sugar donuts between his teeth, Mulder pushes his way out of the corner store and into the bluster of November. Were he even a hair clumsier, the effort would have resulted in catastrophe, but thankfully, he’s always been relatively agile for his size. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorts. At least his certifiable bastard DNA gave him one good trait. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A gust of wind hits without warning, almost overturning the delicate balancing act, and he curses around the paper in his mouth, ducking his head as the icy rain starts to fall in earnest. A good thing that it’d been his turn first to go get them a pick me up. He doesn’t think that he’ll let her go in a few hours, when she inevitably offers. He isn’t sure she can handle the chill, and after all, it’s only the humidity that bothers him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s nights like this that Mulder misses living further north, where cold weather was expected instead of sudden, and always guaranteed the dignity of snow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The New England winter would suit Scully, in all her quiet, cut glass grace. He likes to picture her in front of a fireplace as the wind howls outside, a furry blanket draped around her. Cheeks filled out, like they’d been when he met her, tinged pink from sitting too close to the heat. Shoulders drawn up close to her body, always too tense from the things she carries. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rental car is parked at the corner, down the block and diagonally across the street. It’s got a good vantage point of the warehouse they’ve been watching, hoping for any trace of the questionably human individual who’d likely caused all of the recent, seemingly drug-related deaths.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even from fifty feet away, it’s easy to see the small figure hunched in the passenger seat. Scully’s bundled up in her mid-weather coat, the overhead light switched on as she leafs through the case file with a distinct pout on her lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mulder knows she’s not happy with the direction their investigation is going. Try as he might, he can’t quite get her on his side with this one. To her credit, a phantasm causing life-threatening bouts of narcolepsy in drug addicts is a stretch, even for him. And it’s never a good sign when they have to resort to stakeouts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the sight of her wreathed in yellow fluorescence warms him anyway, dissatisfied as she is. Even after everything, she’s still here, watching him watch endlessly, arguing out of habit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still bright, clear and sure as flame. He thinks of her, sometimes, as a single match struck to illuminate the way, flighty and flickering, always threatening to sputter out if he fails to pay attention. Keeping him transfixed, but carrying a risk of burned fingertips, if he doesn’t keep a slight, careful distance, holding her at arm’s length. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The car door creaks like an old man on his deathbed, and Mulder is almost convinced that the the milky damp in the air has rusted completely through the hinges in the few minutes he’d been gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scully doesn’t greet him, doesn’t even look up from the newspaper clipping she’s scanning with one practically manicured nail. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gotcha something to eat,” he announces, letting the donut bag fall into his lap and slamming the door shut behind him. The shockwave of cool, wet air makes her shiver visibly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She extends her hand for her coffee, and he gives it to her, bare fingers brushing against hers in their soft leather gloves. Settling back into his seat, he adjusts his coat. The rain has soaked into the outer layers, leaving the wool icy to the touch, little comfort from the biting chill that’s crept steadily into the car along with the night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she shows no sign of looking at what he’s brought, he scoops the bag up and deposits it in her lap instead. She probably doesn’t think that he’ll notice the way the corner of her mouth turns up, doesn’t think that he cares enough to look closely.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he watches her, just as she does him, and he notices. Hides a smile of his own in his coat collar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow, Mulder,” she says, a tired attempt at sarcasm. “I can’t think of anything I'd rather eat at eleven thirty at night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d no doubt expected yogurt covered raisins, and had he been less concerned, she’d have been right. It’s just that she’s so underweight still, ever since the cancer. The fine bones of her face seem hewn from marble, carved to last, but she’s more sparrow than sculpture these days, pneumatic and feathered, lingering insomnia leaving her dulled.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no way to cook for her, or convince her to eat. In this strange place they’ve found themselves in, a crime scene of their former lives, almost everything feels too intimate. Any outright gesture could too easily be interpreted as romantic overtures, any intruding on her personal life too similar to stepping on the chalk outline where she would’ve fallen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he has no right, not with what he’s done to her. Stolen from her. Not with the genetic stuff he’s apparently made of.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So instead, he settles for this. Carb-ridden, fatty foods during stakeouts, the kind she loves, but refuses to buy herself. She’ll roll her eyes, and she won’t thank him, but when she falls asleep in the passenger seat with her plush mouth slack and content, he’ll know. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite delivering his expected reaction, Scully unfolds the little bag, slips a glove off with her teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t forget to hold your breath,” he advises, just as she lifts a donut to eat it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She glances over at him, one eyebrow lifted as if demanding to know who he thinks he’s talking to, then takes a bite. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once, in their first year together, she’d demonstrated eating this exact brand of donuts without mess. Mulder can still recall exactly what she’d looked like pinching her nose to ensure no accidental exhales, how she’d let out a laugh by accident on her second one, propelling a cloud of powdered sugar into the air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good?” He asks, as she licks her lips clean and reaches for another. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This, Mulder,” she says, dryly, the donut held aloft. “This makes it </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>worth it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turns to look at him as he chuckles, the corners of her eyes betraying her amusement, and he spots a dot of powdered sugar on the tip of her nose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two years ago, he’d have reached across to wipe it off with a flourish, caught her eye with a smirk. Last year, he’d have done it without comment, his other hand gently cupping her jaw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, though, he feels waterlogged, weighed down to his bones, a coward and a guilty man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve got a little somethin’,” he tells her instead, tapping at his own nose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” She wipes it off with the back of her hand, the smear chalk white on her skin, and shoots him a smile. “Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mulder reaches up to shut off the light, muttering something about not running down the battery, and then they settle back into silence, the sound of the quickening rain filling up the space between them. </span>
</p>
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